Pizza to Go!
by The Cheshire Cheese
Summary: The news reports say the notorious gangster ate himself to death. Only Vinnie, God, and a few other associates know what really happened that night. One robot gangster's confession. (Oneshot.)


**A/N: After being a "Spaceballs" fan for well over fifteen years, I just realized last night that in the famous Pizza the Hutt scene, the space gangsters are speaking from a fancy pizzeria. I always thought the joke was simply about "Jabba the Hutt" sounding like "Pizza Hut," but I know realize that it was also a joke about Jabba being an Italian mob boss stereotype in space. Wow. I. Am. Slow.**

**Anyway, this story is based on a theory I came up with last night (and posted on TV Tropes). I do not own "Spaceballs."**

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As a Space Gangster, I am bound to a vow of silence. But as a Catholic Robot, I gotta confess my sins.

I did a bad thing, Robot-God. Well, maybe not _all_ bad. If you hear me out, I think you'll see how I was maybe kinda justified. Or at least why I can't be blamed for _thinkin'_ I was justified. Really, I might'a done the universe a favor. The galaxy's better off without that scum. Still, a sin's a sin. And I'm in the wrong.

I worked for Pizza the Hutt my entire adult life. Heck, I even witnessed his boith. (He-hem, "birth." Sorry, sometimes I type wit the accent. Bad habit.) My given name is VIN-Numero Chromeloni Fontainium. My family controlled the entire Ford Galaxy for over 12.569 generations. My pop, Hal-Capone Fontanium, ran the most bumpin' pizzeria in the universe. The whole family worked there. I been cooking up pizzas with my eye-lasers since I was two-feet tall and rust-free. We robots got the monopoly on the pizza-smuggling beeswax. (Fattening foods are strictly illegal in the Ford galaxy, where the Parliament wants its citizens should all look like buff movie stars, but all that's done is driven the pizza business underground. Good for us Fontaniums!) But the night Pop finally let me do it on my own, things went wrong, and everything changed.

It was my baby cousin Chip's baptism, and we was supposed ta cater for the whole extended family. That's a lotta pizza to make. Well Pop was recovering from a shoot out with some Druish droid mobsters (faucet-nosed cheapskates, the lot of them!), and Ma was off visiting her parents on Jupiter 5, so that left me to make twenty-seven pizzas for the entire Fontanium family. My twelve-year-old self thought it'd be a great idea ta try baking them all in Mr. Oven (good model, same company that makes Mr. Coffee). And at the same time my pizzas was all meltin' together, a radiation wave hit the planet Chromos (where we lived), and it mixed badly with the marinara sauce. The bread rose, the cheese melted, and ka-boom, Pizza the Hutt was born.

We welcomed that ungrateful prick into our family. My Pop took him in as his own son. I accepted him as my baby brother. We _raised_ that pizza. And how'd he repay us? By taking over Pop's business. He started off just "helping out," while Pop's health declined. He was insidious. When Pop was near the end—his memory circuits was breakin' down, didn't think as clearly—that pepperoni-covered bastard convinced him to leave the entire business to him, in his will. I was left in the cold. Oh, but it was okay, cuz Pizza was _totally_ gonna share the power with his big brother, and he was gonna look out for me and Ma. I was gullible back then. I believed Pizza really did just want what was best for the restaurant, for our empire. His hunger for power happened gradually.

Well I don't wanna go on forever. I'll skip over the next thirty years, and just sum up the result: Pizza the Hutt ruled the Ford Galaxy, and was the most powerful gang lord in the known universe, and he made it by screwing my family (sometimes literally; he liked to recycle old robot parts to build new henchmen). And it wasn't just us who suffered. Pizza treated all his subjects like crap. Plus, he kept gettin' us into trouble we couldn't afford—wars with other gangs, conspicuous crimes that had the cops on us like ugly on an ape, he even messed with the Spaceballs a few times. By the time Captain Lonestarr was embarking on his now-famous quest to save the Druish princess, we'd all agreed that Pizza had ta go.

There was five of us in on the plot: Meter Goldstein (a gold Druish droid who handled our finances); Tiffany (Pizza's mol, a blue-skinned space-babe who he kept on a chain and forced to wear a gold biknini and loin cloth everywhere); Counselor Trite (Pizza's babe psychiatrist); Donnie (our best pizza delivery man, and double-agent), and of course, Yours Truly.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Which could be because it _was_ yesterday. Three in the afternoon to be precise. We were all there, in the pizzeria. Pizza was discussing business with Donnell O'Mega, our last ally on the planet Sham-Rock. O'Mega was really running outta patience with Pizza's unreasonable demands, and racial slurs. (Hey, _I_ think the Sham-Rock aliens are a buncha' drunk, funny-accented gingers, but _I_ got the good sense ta keep those thoughts to myself!)

"Keep your hat on," Pizza the Hutt laughed, as the green-skinned, red-haired alien scowled at him across the table. "You'll still get fifteen percent of what you were getting before! It should be enough ta pay for your space whiskey."

If looks could kill, O'Mega would've made pizza explode into a thousand pepperoni crumbs right there.

Counselor Trite leaned in close to the boss, giving me and the boys a nice view of her cleavage. (Trite looks human, with big poofy brunette hair, but she's actually half Babezoid.) Quietly, she whispered, in that exotic accent of hers, "Mister the Hutt, I'm sensing hostility!"

On the other side of Pizza, Tiffany rolled her eyes, and took a drag from her long nebula-cigarette, blowing out a cloud of orange smoke. She wasn't the only one who found the counselor annoying. Pizza himself could hardly stand her, and he made no efforts to hide it.

"Oh can it, Trite," Pizza spat. "I hired you to be my shrink, but all you ever do is 'sense is hostility!' You're like a broken record. _'I senz hosteelity! I senz hosteelity!'_ Gimme a break."

O'Mega finally growled, in that cute Irish accent of his, "You should listen to your counselor, Pizza. You can't keep up your business without my shipments. If you're gonna screw me over, it's you who'll be left out in the cold."

Pizza laughed. "I think you'll like my fifteen percent better than the alternative!"

O'Mega's little assistant, Mickey, squeaked, "What's the alternative?"

Pizza chucked to me, "Tell 'em Vinnie!"

On the inside, I sighed. I was sick of saying this line. It was _kind of_ funny the first twelve-hundred times I said it. By now, I was looking forward to never having to say it again. But on the outside I kept my cool, played the part of the eager henchmen. With my usual suave, I finished for my boss, "Or else _Pizza_…is gonna send out…foooor _you_!"

The conversation ended exactly the same as every one he'd had with every other ally, enemy and underling in the last year. O'Mega told Pizza to bring it on, Pizza promised he would, and a declaration of war was all but made right there. All of us stayed perfectly in character. I acted like the cool right-hand robot. Tiffany giggled, and gave pizza a kiss on the anchovy. Counselor Trite swooned like Disney princess, and started rambling about how she sensed danger and death in the near future. Meter Goldstein complained about how much the wine cost, that O'Mega spilled on the table when he knocked his glass over on the way out. Pizza didn't suspect a thing.

"Well boys," Pizza sneered, "I'm pooped! How about we celebrate. What do you say Monica sweetheart?" he tugged the gold slave-chain around his concubine's heck.

Irritably, the blue woman replied, "My name's Tiffany."

"Monica, Tiffany, same difference. One's blonde, one's blue. Whatever! Let's go hit the arcade and play some pinball!"

Straitening his gold wrench-tie, Goldstein said in his soft, mechanical, New York accent, "Pinball sounds swell."

We all piled into Pizza's private stretched-limousine. Donnie drove. He was pretty worn out, poor guy. He'd just barely escaped Spaceball-1, where Pizza had placed him as a double-agent, to gain information to help us get around Spaceball authorities when we were doing business in their territory. Don had to go straight from escaping an exploding Mega-Maid (whatever the heck a "Mega-Maid" is) to picking us all up in Pizza's limo, and driving us halfway across the solar system to a Shakey's. For the record, there was a Shakey's right next to the pizzeria, but Pizza wanted to go to "the _good_ Shakey's."

"...I still can't believe it happened!" Donnie said, his eyes on the stars and his hands clutching the wheel. "We had fifteen minutes to self-destruct, and there was barely enough escape pods for half the crew. This might sound kinda weak, but I basically stole Dark Helmet's pod. He's all, 'Where do you think you're going?' and I was like, 'Pizza ta go!' and then I just kinda laughed while I took off. I also flicked him the bird, but I don't think he saw. But I tell ya, I've had twelve near-death experiences before, and this one tops them all! I'm gonna need years of therapy to get over this. You ain't looking for any new clients, are you Counselor?" he turned around to glance at Counselor Trite's cleavage hopefully. "By the way, did I mention how brave I was on that ship? It was fifteen seconds to self-destruct, and I—"

"Vinnie," Pizza interrupted. "Who are you even talking to? No one cares. Just drive!"

"Donnie." Donnie said, his face falling. "_He's_ Vinnie." He thumbed behind him to me, and turned his attention back to the stars, just in time to swerve away from a loudly mooing cow floating through space.

The rest of the ride unfolded mostly in awkward silence, except for the occasional lame joke from Pizza, which we all of course had to laugh at. Finally, after two hours, Pizza figured out that we weren't going to Shakey's.

"Hey, that's Jupiter 5! This isn't the way to Shakey's you idiot! What are you, drunk?"

"My mind," Donnie said darkly, "has never been more clear."

He turned sharply, taking us towards a massive asteroid. A sign on the rock blinked, in crackling pink neon, "Space Slug Parking: 5 Spacebucks." The asteroid was full of holes, and in every hole was a giant, sleeping space-slug. As the car neared one entrance, the slug's mouth opened, revealing jagged teeth the size of tollbooths. Actually, one tooth _was_ a tollbooth. Donnie stopped the limo in front of the toll-tooth, and paid the five space-buck fee to the lady worker. Then he took us down the slug's gullet, deep, deep into the darkness.

"What the hell is this?" Pizza demanded. "What is this, some kinda' haunted house tour? Halloween was _last_ year!"

Without sayin' a woid (sorry, accent-typing again), Donnie put the car into park. The rest of the parking ramp was empty. We were the only car in the entire slug.

"What's going on?!" Pizza shouted.

Donnie, Goldstein, Tiffany, Trite, and me all looked at each other.

Goldstein's gold, robot eyes narrowed. "You know Pizza, for the galaxy's greatest gangster, you're not very bright. You regularly bite the hand that feeds you. You start wars with your allies. You attract the attention of the cops."

Counselor Trite then turned to Pizza, dropping her "exotic counselor" routine completely. In her genuine, New York accent, she said, "You don't treat your friends very nicely, Pizza. After giving you a careful psychoanalysis for the last eleven years, I've concluded that you are a textbook narcissist."

The shocked crime lord turned to Tiffany, then Donnie. Their expressions were hard and unmoving. Finally, he turned to me. "Vinnie! Help me out here buddie."

"Help you out." I said flatly. "Like you was gonna 'help out' my Pop? Like you 'helped out' my family by taking over our whole business? That pizzeria's mine! Mine and my mudder's. You stole it from us. And I'm gonna get it back, real soon."

Pizza's face began to bubble with rage and fear. He tried his best to look intimidating, but one could see the olives and anchovies sweating down the sides of his face. "I don't need this crap!" Pizza spat, hitting me in the face with some wet cheese. "I'm outta here." He tugged at the door, but it was locked. Heaving angrily, he demanded, "Unlock this car Donnie! Right now!"

Calmly, I replied, "You got no power here, Pizza."

Goldstein added, "You got no power _anywhere_, anymore."

I finished, "We're relieving you of your position."

"Relieving?" Pizza demanded angrily, nervously. "What the hell's that mean, 'relieving?'"

Slowly, I turned my silver head to Donnie, at the front of the car. "Tell 'im, Donnie."

Quietly, Donnie began to laugh. "…_Pizza ta go!_"

I was the first to dive in, my chrome mouth wide opened. I couldn't resist; he _was_ delicious. Trite was next, her innocent little eyes bulging manically, as she scooped into the living pizza mound like a zombie disemboweling a victim. Tiffany started off with a lustful kiss, but it quickly turned into a mouthful of pepperoni. Donnie dove right between the two front seats, his eyes wide and vengeful, eager to get back at the boss who'd abused him for so long, and eager to get his share of the olives before I ate them all. Goldstein was the only neat eater, taking time to tie on a lobster bib, and dig out a knife and fork.

It wasn't a quick and easy death for Pizza. It was slow, messy, and cheesy. Mothers, cover your kids' eyes. No one under fifteen should watch this death scene, it's too graphic. Will probably give the kiddie's nightmares. It did me.

After it was done, Trite dictated the fake suicide note, while Tiffany did the writing. (With Trite being Pizza's shrink, she obviously was the most qualified to fake his voice, and Tiffany knew her boyfriend's handwriting like the back of her blue hand.) We then snuck out of the car, and hitched a ride with some cross-dressers on their way home from a "Rocky Horror" midnight showing. The next morning, Pizza the Hutt's "tragic death" was all over subspace news.

We planned it perfectly. All evidence led cops to believe the notorious gangster had got locked in his car, ran out of food, and resolved to eating himself. A note was found, where Pizza confessed that, in the even he should go too far and accidentally eat himself to death, he wanted to leave his entire pizza business to his beloved friend, business associate, and adopted brother, Vinnie.

And there you have it, Robot-God. I've confessed. I'm sitting in the front pew of my robot church right now, looking up at the stained glass window of the Robot Trinity (Robot Jesus, Elvis Presley, and Mecha-Godzilla). How you judge me after I break down for good, I don't care. I've saved the Fontainium family, and I've brought peace to the galaxy's underworld. For that, my own artificial soul is a small price to pay.

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**A/N: Yeah, this was full of really lame jokes. I was mostly trying to keep with the mood of "Spaceballs." Though I also stole a few ideas from "Futurama" and "Spacenuts." **

**Apologies to people who want me to finish one of my *real* stories. It's been a hectic week, and it'll be a busy weekend, so I can't say for sure when I'll have another update. But I really hope to have "The Silver Bird" finished before the summer's over. **


End file.
